The Truth Is
Spoilers: Sleep Tight
Summary: Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and bleed a little truth, beautiful. (3rd of 3 Very Dark Wesley Tales)
Archive: Lists and those with permission, others ask.
Disclaimer: He's not mine.
Dying (and this is the horrible beautiful blood on the sharp blades of grass truer than true truth) is not that much different than living. In fact, dying is merely being able to know when the living stops.
The truth is. well, truth is relative, isn't it? Or is that a mere sign of his degeneracy, his moral relativism that allows him to kill fairy tale villagers in a parallel dimension or lie about prophecy? but anyway, the truth is. He supposes the truth is, anyway, he's not sure because someone always said.
Someone. Cordelia someone. Cordelia who is off probably on a beach somewhere with Groo, her reward for all the selflessness, completely selfish in the one moment that she deserves to have at precisely the worst moment. He wishes that Cordelia were here.
Here. Grass in the park across from his house. The nice mothers with their nice children will not be happy that he chose to die here in their nice grass, where they were wont to play. They will be absolutely aghast at his poor taste. Wont. Funny word, as though this was a Wordsworth poem and not his own. well.
Wordsworth was a sentimental ponce, come down to it. He much preferred Coleridge. Or Eliot. Or really, Radiohead.
The moment's already passed. Yeah it's gone.
Gone. Like he's gone and doomed and nobody's going to find him until the cop on the beat mistakes him for a transient. And the truth is that. The truth is that he'll be dead by the time the cop comes by. Maybe cold.
He's already cold.
He remembers the cold. Last time, it wasn't real, it was cold but he couldn't believe that really, he had been shot. Just cold. Looking at Gunn, who was staring at him, jaw dropped, upset. Wasn't the same thing. Not at all.
He wasn't alone the last time. People were shouting about ambulances and hospitals. This time, he's in the grass and he's not. Moving toward. anything. Can't do much more than stagger. Blood loss.
Blood loss. Does funny things to the body. He's been there. It's not something one forgets even lying on the grass. Dying. Bleeding. He thinks, split second thought, that maybe there was some sort of symbolism, cutting his throat. Shutting him up. Hiding the story.
Symbolism doesn't mean anything when it's your blood being bled.
Blood is sticky and semi-metallic and it hurts to bleed. The truth is. so many things don't mean anything when you're bleeding to death on the grass. One minute to the hospital. The truth is. one minute if you can run, you can drive, you can walk fast.
Crawling. One hand trying to stop the bleeding before it's too much and you're face down in the grass? Harder. Longer. too far too long and the truth is the truth is--
perhaps it won't be so bad. Better, perhaps, than a lot of alternatives. Than facing Angel. Than facing anyone ever again. Better. Or maybe that's just the despair talking.
He's not sure that one can talk with a slit throat. Perhaps all the talking is in his head but he's not sure. He could have sworn he was hearing all of this. But he's cold and the truth is, the Truth is.
Maybe he wants to die.
Maybe he wanted to die and this is the truth that he can't stand to think about. Better to crawl inch by inch through the grass, sure of the worst, hoping for a miracle. But no truth. No accepting that something in him knew that the woman
That woman with the hurt in her eyes, the fear, the darkness that he stares at every night in the mirror, the eternal lostness.
Justine. He knew. He knew because he knows himself. Would he do something like that? Kill an innocent that wasn't innocent because there's no innocence for anyone who willingly joins this war?
He would. She didn't really deserve any blame. Rather clever, all things considered. Tactically very clever, preying on the weakness of your enemy and exploiting it ruthlessly.
Certainly he wanted to die. Perhaps he still does, but the truth is dying alone is not. is not a pleasant thought. The quiet. He wants the quiet. the quiet is calling him. but he wants someone. Just for now.
Any someone. Angel. Cordelia. Gunn. Fred. Virginia. Justine. anyone. Any passing stranger. He wants them to take his hand in theirs.
it'll be okay, they say to him, a kind stranger who doesn't know that he's betraying filth, he's unworthy of love, a liar, a madman. it'll be okay. he wants a lie, a kind lie to ease him down.
No one should face the underworld alone.
He pulls himself another inch into more slick, green-feeling, sharp-smelling grass. the stranger would try to slow the blood. Smile at him bravely.
Shh, don't worry. We'll get you to a doctor. it'll be okay, you'll be fine. I'm here.
for a second. for a second. he would be first in someone's mind. he wouldn't deserve it. He never deserves it, stuck-up prat with no gift for being someone's most important person. but for a second.
shhhhh. just close your eyes. don't worry.
Maybe he wants to die. Maybe he wants to live. But he knows. not alone. please god. whoever. whatever. please. He doesn't want to die alone. in the grass is fine. But not.
It's so cold. shhh. just close your eyes. I'm here. He's not sure he's making any sense and it's so very important to make sense to go. Just a little further.
His stranger. just close your eyes. shhh. His stranger has a smile that's just for him. she. he. it forgives him. quiets the way with just a little forgiveness. The smallest bit of redemption. Dying makes a saint of everyone.
It's a beautiful smile.
He's cold. dying. trying to survive. wishing for death. wishing for someone. forgiven.
It's a beautiful smile.
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